Josua shook his head. “I have been living with dreams and omens too long to say it could not be, but as with all such things, it no doubt has its tricks and twists.” He sighed. “Mother of Mercy, old friend, it seems that even my children will not be free of the mysteries that plague us.”
Isgrimnur could think of nothing to say to comfort the prince. Instead, he changed the subject. “So Varellan has surrendered. I wish I had been there to see the end of the battle. And is Camaris well? And Hotvig and the rest?”
“Both wounded, but not seriously. We are in surprisingly good strength, thanks to Seriddan and the other Nabbanai barons.”
“So we march on to the city itself. Where do you think Benigaris will try to draw his line?”
Bent beneath Isgrimnur’s broad arm, the prince shrugged. “I do not know. But he will draw it, never fear—and we may not come out of that battle so luckily. I do not like to think about fighting house to house down the peninsula.”
“We will get the lay of the land, Josua, then decide.” As they reached his bedside, Isgrimnur found himself looking forward to getting into bed as eagerly as a young man might anticipate a day free from chores.
You’re turning soft, he told himself. But at this moment, he did not care. It would be good to lay his aching bones down.
“The children are splendid, Josua.” He adjusted himself on the pallet. “Do not fret on Aditu’s words.”
“I always fret,” the prince said, smiling weakly. “Just as you always bluster.”
“Are we really so set in our habits?” Isgrimnur yawned to cover a grimace at the fierce aching of his ribs and back. “Then maybe it is time for the young ones to push us aside.”
“We must leave them a better world than this one if we can. We have made a terrible muck of the one we were given.” He took Isgrimnur’s hand for a moment. “Sleep now, old friend.”
Isgrimnur watched the prince walk out, happy to see that some of the bounce still remained in his step.
I hope you get the chance to see those two children grow. And that they get to do it in that better world you spoke of.
He leaned back and closed his eyes, waiting for the welcome embrace of sleep.
44
The Shadow King
Simon’s entire life had shrunk to the length of two arms, his and the king’s. The room was dark. Elias held him in a cold-fingered grip as unbreakable as any manacle.
“Speak.” The voice was accompanied by a puff of vapor like dragon-spume, although Simon’s own breath was invisible. “Who are you?”
Simon struggled for words, but could make no sound. This was a nightmare, a terrible dream from which he could not awaken.
“Speak, damn you. Who are you?” The faint gleam of the king’s eyes narrowed, almost vanishing into the shadows that hid his face.
“N–n–nobody,” Simon stammered. “I … I’m n–nobody. …”
“Are you?” There was note of sour amusement. “And what brings you here?”
Simon’s head was empty of thoughts or excuses. “Nothing.”
“You are nobody … and your business is nothing.” Elias laughed quietly, a sound like parchment being torn. “Then you certainly belong in this place, with all the other nameless ones.” He tugged Simon a step closer. “Let me look at you.”
Simon was forced in turn to look directly at the king. It was hard to see him clearly in the faint light, but Simon thought he did not look quite human. There was a sheen to his pale arm, faint as the glow of swamp water, and although the chamber was dank and very cold, all of Elias’ skin that Simon could see was beaded with moisture. Still, for all his fevered look, the king’s arm was knotted with muscle and his grip was like stone.
A shadowy something lay against the king’s leg, long and black. A sheath. Simon could feel the thing that was in it, the sensation as dim but unmistakable as a voice calling from far away. Its song reached deep into the secret part of his thoughts … but he knew he could not let it fascinate him. His real danger was far more immediate.
“Young, I see,” Elias said slowly. “And fair-skinned. What are you, one of Pryrates’ Black Rimmersmen? Or Thrithings-folk?”
Simon shook his head but said nothing.
“It is all the same to me,” Elias murmured. “Whatever tools Pryrates chooses for his work, it is all the same to me.” He squinted at Simon’s face. “Ah, I see you flinch. Of course I know why you are here.” He laughed harshly. “That damned priest has his spies everywhere—why would he not have one in his own tower, where he keeps secrets that he will not show even to his master, the king?”
Elias’ clutch loosened for a moment. Simon’s heart sped again in anticipation that he might be able to make a try for freedom, but the king was only settling himself in a different position; before Simon could do more than think about escape, the claw tightened again.
But it’s something to watch for, Simon told himself, struggling to keep hope from dying. Oh, if he does, I pray I can get the door downstairs open again!
A sudden tug on his arm dragged Simon to his knees.
“Down, boy, where I can see you without stretching my neck. Your king is tired and his bones ache.” There was a moment of silence. “Strange. You do not have the face of a Rimmersman or Thrithings-rider. You look more like one of my Erkynlandish peasants. That red hair! But they say that the grasslanders were of Erkynland once, long ago. …”
The sense of being in a dream returned. How could the king see the color of his hair in this darkness? Simon struggled to make his breathing even, to keep his fear down. He had faced a dragon—a real dragon, not a human one like this—and he had also survived in the black dreadfulness of the tunnels. He must keep his wits about him and watch for any opportunity.
“Once all of Erkynland—all of the lands of Osten Ard—were like the grasslands,” Elias hissed. “Nothing but petty tribes squabbling over pastureland, horse-stealing savages.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly; the odor was strangely like metal. “It took a strong hand to change that. It takes a strong hand to build a kingdom. Do you not think that the hill-folk of Nabban cried and wailed when the Imperator’s guardsmen first came? But their children were thankful, and their children’s children would have had it no other way. …”
Simon could make no sense of the king’s rambling, but felt a fluttering of hope as the deep voice trailed off and silence fell. After waiting for a score of rapid heartbeats, Simon pulled as gently as he could, but his arm was still held. The king’s eyes were hooded, and his chin appeared to have sunk onto his chest. But he was not sleeping.
“And look what my father built,” Elias said abruptly. His eyes opened wide, as though he could see beyond the shadowed room and its disturbing furniure. “An empire such as the old Nabbanai masters only dreamed about. He carved it out with his sword, then protected it from jealous men and vengeful immortals. Aedon be praised, but he was a man—a man!” The king’s fingers tightened on Simon’s wrist until it felt as though the bones were grinding together. Simon let out a gasp of pain. “And he gave it to me to tend, just the way one of your peasant ancestors passed his son a small patch of land and a raddled cow. My father gave me the world! But that was not enough—no, it was not enough that I hold his kingdom, that I keep its borders strong, that I protect it from those who would take it away again. No, that is only part of ruling. Only part. And it is not enough.”
Elias seemed completely lost now, droning away as if to an old friend. Simon wondered if he was drunk, but there was no liquor on his breath, only that strange leaden smell. Simon’s sense of being trapped rose again, choking him. Would he be kept here by the mad king until Pryrates returned? Or would Elias tire of talking and administer king’s justice himself to the captured spy?
“This is what your master Pryrates will never understand,” Elias continued. “Loyalty. Loyalty to a person, or loyalty to a cause. Do you think he cares what happens to you? Of course you don’t—even a peasant lad like you is not so thick. It w
ould be hard to spend a moment in the alchemist’s company without knowing his only loyalty is to himself. And that is where he does not understand me. He only serves me because I have power: if he could wield the power himself, he would happily slit my throat.” Elias laughed. “Or he would try, in any case. I wish he would try. But I have a greater loyalty, to my father and to the kingdom he built, and I would suffer any pain for it.” His voice broke suddenly; for a moment, Simon felt sure the king would weep. “I have suffered. God Himself knows that I have. Suffered like the damned souls roasting in Hell. I have not slept … have not slept …”
Again the king fell silent. Made wary by the last such pause, Simon did not move, despite the dull throbbing of his knees pressed against the hard stone floor.
When he spoke again, Elias’ voice had lost some of its harshness; he sounded almost like an ordinary man. “Look you, boy, how many years do you have? Fifteen? Twenty? If Hylissa had lived, she might have borne me a son like you. She was beautiful … shy as a young colt, but beautiful. We never had a son. That was the problem, you know. He might have been your age now. Then none of this would have happened.” He pulled Simon closer; then, horribly, he rested a cold hand atop Simon’s head as though performing some ritual blessing. Sorrow’s double-guarded hilt was only a few inches away from Simon’s arm. There was something dreadful about the sword, and the idea that it might touch his flesh made Simon want to pull away screaming, but he was even more terrified by what might happen if he woke the king from this strange speaking dream. He held his arm rigid, and did not move even as Elias began slowly to stroke his hair, though it sent chills down his neck.
“A son. That is what I needed. One that I could have raised as my father raised me, a son that could understand what was needed. Daughters …” He paused and took several rasping breaths. “I had a daughter. Once. But a daughter is not the same. You must hope that the man she marries will understand, will have the right blood, for he will be the one who rules. And what man who is not his own flesh and blood can a father trust to inherit the world? Still, I would have tried. I would have tried … but she would not have it. Damned, insolent child!” His voice rose. “I gave her everything—I gave her life, curse her! But she ran away! And everything fell to ashes. Where was my son? Where was he?”
The king’s hand tightened in Simon’s hair until it seemed he must tear it loose from the scalp. Simon bit his lip to keep silent, frightened again by the turn Elias’ madness had taken. The voice from the shadows of the chair was growing louder. “Where have you been? I waited until I could not wait any longer. Then I had to make my own arrangements. A king cannot wait, you see. Where were you? A king cannot wait. Otherwise things begin to fall apart. Things fall apart, and everything my father gave me would be lost.” His voice rose to a shout. “Lost!” Elias leaned forward until his face was only a handbreadth from Simon’s. “Lost!” he hissed, staring. His face was glossy with sweat. “Because you did not come!”
A rabbit in the fox’s jaw, Simon waited, heart hammering. When the king’s hand loosened in his hair he ducked his head, waiting for the blow to fall.
“But Pryrates came to me,” Elias whispered. “He had failed me in his first task, but he came to me with words, words like smoke. There was a way to make things right.” He snorted. “I knew that he only wanted power. Don’t you see, that is what a king does, my son. He uses those who seek to use him. That is the way of it. That is what my father taught me, so listen well. I have used him as he has used me. But now his little plan is unraveling and he thinks to hide it from me. But I have my own ways of knowing, do you see? And I need no spies, no peasant boys skulking about. Even did I not hear the voices that howl through the sleepless nights, still the king is no fool. What is this trip to Wentmouth, that Pryrates should go there yet again even as the red star is rising? What is at Wentmouth but a hill and a harbor flame? What is to be done there that has not been done already? He says it is part of the great design, but I do not believe him. I do not believe him.”
Elias was panting now, hunched over with his shoulders moving as though he tried to swallow and could not. Simon leaned away, but his arm was still firmly prisoned. He thought that if he flung himself backward as hard as he could he might break free, but the idea of what would happen if he failed—if he only brought the king’s attention back to where he was and what he was doing—was enough to make him stay shivering on his knees beside the chair. But the king’s next words pushed thought of escape from his mind.
“I should have known that there was something wrong when he told me about the swords,” the king grated. “I am no fool, to be frightened with such kitchen tales, but that sword of my father’s—it burned me! Like it was cursed. And then I was given … the other one.” Although it hung at his hip only a few scant inches away, the king did not look at Sorrow, but instead turned his haunted stare up toward the ceiling. “It has … changed me. Pryrates says it is for the best. Said that I will not gain what he promised me unless the bargain is kept. But it is inside me like my own blood now, this sorcerous thing. It sings to me all through the night hours. Even in the daytime it is like a demon crouched beside me. Cursed blade!”
Simon waited for the king to say more, but Elias had fallen into another rough-breathing silence, his head still tilted back. At last, when it seemed that the king had truly fallen asleep, or had forgotten entirely what he had been saying, Simon nerved himself to speak.
“A–and your f–f–father’s sword? Where is it?”
Elias lowered his gaze. “It is in his grave.” His eyes held Simon’s for a moment, then the muscles of his jaw tightened and his teeth appeared in a mirthless grin. “And what is it to you, spy? Why does Pryrates wish to know about that sword? I have heard it spoken of in the night. I have heard much.” His hand reached up and the fingers wrapped around Simon’s face like bands of steel. Elias coughed harshly and wheezed for breath, but his clutch did not loosen. “Your master would have been proud of you if you had escaped to tell him. The sword, is it? The sword? Is that part of his plan, to use my father’s sword against me?” The king’s face was streaming sweat. His eyes seemed entirely black, holes into a skull full of twittering darkness. “What does your master plan?” He heaved in another difficult breath. “T–t–tell me!”
“I don’t know anything!” cried Simon. “I swear!”
Elias was shaken by a wracking cough. He slid back in the chair, letting go of his prisoner’s face; Simon could feel the icy burn where the fingers had been. The hand on his wrist tightened as the king coughed again and gasped for breath.
“God curse it,” Elias panted. “Go find my cupbearer.”
Simon froze like a startled mouse.
“Do you hear me?” The king let go of Simon’s wrist and waved at him angrily. “Get the monk. Tell him to bring my cup.” He sucked in another draught of air. “Find my cupbearer.”
Simon pushed himself back along the stone until he was out of the king’s reach. Elias was sunken in shadow once more, but his cold presence was still strong. Simon’s arm throbbed where the king had squeezed it, but the pain was as nothing next to the heartbreaking possibility of escape. He struggled to his feet, and doing so, knocked over a stack of books; when they thumped to the floor Simon cringed, but Elias did not move.
“Get him,” the king growled.
Simon moved slowly toward the door, certain that at any moment he would hear the king lurch to his feet behind him. He reached the landing, out of sight of the chair; then, within a moment, he was on the stairway. He did not even grab for his torch, though it was within arm’s reach, but hurried down the stairs in darkness, his feet as surefooted as if he walked a meadow in sunlight. He was free! Beyond all hope, he was free! Free!
On the stairs just above the first landing a small, dark-haired woman stood. He had a momentary glimpse of her yellowish eyes as she stepped out of his way. Silent, she watched him pass.
He hit the tower’s outside doors at a rush and
burst through into the foggy, moonlit Inner Bailey, feeling as though he could suddenly sprout wings and mount up into the clouded sky. He had only taken two steps before the cat-silent, black-cloaked figures were upon him. They caught him as firmly as the king had, holding both his arms pinioned. The white faces stared at him dispassionately. The Norns did not seem at all surprised to have captured an unfamiliar mortal on the steps of Hjeldin’s Tower.
As Rachel shrank back in alarm, the bundle in her hand fell to the rough stone floor. She flinched at the noise it made.
The crunch of footsteps grew louder and a glow like dawn crept up the tunnel: they would be upon her in a moment. Backed into a crevice in the stone wall, Rachel looked around for somewhere to hide her lamp. At last, in desperation, she put the treacherously bright thing between her feet and bent over it, draping her cloak around her like a curtain so that its hem spread out onto the ground. She could only hope that the torches they carried blinded them to the light that must leak from beneath. Rachel clenched her teeth and silently prayed. The oily smell of the lamp was already making her feel ill.
The men who were approaching moved at a leisurely pace—far too leisurely to miss an old woman hiding behind her cloak, she was fearfully certain. Rachel thought she would die if they stopped.
“… they like those white-skinned things so much, they should put them to work,” a voice said, becoming audible above the noise of footfalls. “All the priest has us doing is carrying away stones and dirt and running errands. That’s no job for guardsmen.”
“And who are you to say?” another man asked.
“Just because the king gives Red-robe a free hand doesn’t mean that we …” the first began, but was interrupted.
“And I suppose you would tell him otherwise?” a third cackled. “He would eat you for supper and toss the bones away!”
“Shut your mouth,” the first snapped, but there was not much confidence in his tone. He resumed more quietly. “All the same, there’s something dead wrong down here, dead wrong. I saw one of those corpse-faces waiting in the shadows to talk to him. …”